by Claire Marta
Whatever happened, they were prepared.
“Those heels stay on tonight,” Ivan muttered loud enough in her ear for those around them to hear. “I want to feel them digging into my sides when I fuck you.”
Their entourage chuckled. Grinning widely, he responded to their interest with a lurid comment in Russian.
Prepared to act the part, Casey smiled demurely. She was Caitlyn O’Brien, a personal trainer who was dating her hot Russian client. She ran a successful business catering to professional types. The cover story was she and Ivan had worked together on his fitness for a few weeks before he’d asked her out. They’d been seeing each other for a while.
It was all she could do to be civil to Alexei Popov. Her brother’s killer had given them a ride in his limousine tonight. They’d be riding back with him, too… but to where?
She was hoping it was the arms auction, but she could say nothing. Suggest nothing. She was at Ivan’s mercy and he was under Popov’s command. As attuned as Ivan was to her, she was certain that he could gauge her tension through his touch. Knowing there was a tracker in one of her heels diffused some of the apprehension snaking through her body.
They headed for an exterior door, where one of Popov’s men was waiting with their coats.
“I am not in mood for auction tonight,” Alexei decided, his English more broken than Ivan’s. His steel-gray eyes swept over them as he shrugged on his coat. “It pleases me to have drinks instead.”
Casey’s stomach clenched with nerves. This was not part of the plan.
“Da. Whatever you like,” Ivan smoothly agreed. If this development was new to him, he hid it well. “One of the bars you like?”
The head of the Bratva shook his head. “My place.”
Casey forced herself to keep moving. Her team would track her. They’d know where she was. As long as she kept on her heels, she’d be fine.
They stepped out into the cold night air. Casey looked cautiously around her and saw the waiting limo.
Ivan’s hand caressed her spine in soothing patterns, stroking gently as if he was trying to settle a frightened animal. Releasing a breath, she climbed into the back after Alexei was safely inside.
“Nyet. Here.” Popov patted the space beside him.
Forced to obey, she joined him on the seat. Ivan slid in beside her and closed the door, cocooning them inside.
She tried to relax but her limbs stayed stiff. Ben’s murderer was beside her, his leg brushing against hers. Casey hated him. Loathed him with every fiber of her being and she was battling to not show it.
“You like vodka?” Alexei questioned, running a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair.
Plastering a smile on her face, Casey shook her head. “I don’t drink much alcohol. Too many calories.”
“Vodka has none,” he joked, amusement curving the corners of his lips. “Come. You drink with us.”
He poured three squat tumblers of clear liquid, handing them to her and Ivan and keeping one for himself. “Nostrovia!”
“Cheers.” Casey raised hers to her lips and took a sip. Much stronger than the vodka she was used to, the alcohol burned its way down her throat, making her eyes water.
Alexei laughed at her expression when she coughed. “This one is prettier than Elena. She has fire in her eyes.”
Ivan smiled and nodded but didn’t reply. Casey didn’t see how he could remain so cool. How could he stand being around the man who had murdered his wife and child? Revenge fueled his motives. She knew that. It had been two years, though, and he hadn’t made a move until now. She wasn’t sure if she possessed enough patience for something like that.
Her fake boyfriend tossed back his vodka, downing it like water. The Russians she’d been around could certainly hold their liquor. She’d have to pace herself—especially around Popov. She couldn’t afford to dull her reflexes when a quick reaction could mean the difference between life and death.
They fell into silence for the rest of the drive. When they reached some imposing iron gates, Casey craned her neck to take in the view of the house on the other side. It was huge, elegant, and no doubt bought with blood money. How many people's lives had been lost for Alexei to purchase it?
Ivan helped her out of the vehicle, his fingers squeezing hers briefly in reassurance. They were entering the lion's den. His boss’s lair.
Casey wondered how many times her brother had come here undercover before he’d been struck down.
Shoving the thought aside, she forced herself to clear her head. Ben was like a specter beside her. She needed to keep her head in the game.
Alexei took the steps two at a time. Trotting behind on her heels with her arm tucked through Ivan’s, she followed him into the house.
It looked like something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fabulous. A valet greeted them. The maid taking their coats eyed her red hair with a strange play of emotion before she hid it. Curiosity, envy, perhaps even a little jealousy.
Had Ivan been banging his boss’s help? Or was the maid upset that Alexei had invited her here?
It wouldn’t surprise her if the Bratva boss demanded more than domestic service from his female staff. He wouldn’t be the first Pahkan to hire maids and fuck them. Being a mob boss had its perks.
“You have a lovely home,” Casey told him, taking in the expensive antiques and original artwork. “And quite a collection.”
The maid took the last of their coats and scurried away with them.
Alexei turned toward Casey with a smile. “I have more. A private collection. Maybe I show you next time. Tonight you get—how you say?—the grand tour.”
Next time. Those two words rang in her head. Alexei wanted to invite her back. This was a good sign. Sliding her gaze to Ivan’s, she couldn’t contain her half-smile.
The Russian gave her a quick wink when his boss’s back was turned. They accompanied Alexei around as he showed her different rooms, describing them with a flourish, pointing out objects of interest and things that he especially liked.
Casey noted the guards, position of exits, and anything else that could work in favor of her team on the outside. Before long they found themselves in a long, spacious room.
“This my passion.” Alexei gestured to the erotic artwork that filled the gallery. “I collect beautiful things.”
Casey absorbed it all. Paintings. Sculptures. Photographs. Naked women were everywhere in different poses.
Alexei moved to a painting. “This my new piece. You like?”
A blonde woman was in a submissive pose on her knees, the length of her hair hiding her face. It made Casey wonder if he was into BDSM or simply erotic art. Maybe he was just another Alpha male who liked making women beg.
“It’s lovely,” Casey responded, hooking a strand of red hair behind her ear.
The older man’s gray eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I am artist, too.”
Ivan’s arm snaked around her waist, tucking her into his side. “Alexei is a photographer.”
The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end and Casey wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way her mind conjured up something dark and twisted. The Bratva boss’s victims. Blood and gore. She couldn’t imagine he was into scenery or flowers. Then again, who would picture Hitler painting landscapes and architecture?
“I’d like to see your work.” If she was lucky, she’d see something that could be used as evidence to bring him to justice.
Popov’s lips canted upward. “Next time,” he said. “My birthday is December fifth. Ivan, you bring her to the party, yes? Make my birthday special.”
Casey looked at Ivan, her mind swirling with possibilities.
He paused for a beat, his gaze locked with hers for the briefest of seconds. “Da, I will bring her.”
Alexei beamed, flashing his white teeth.
A party meant high-ranking Bratva members. She’d be mingling with crime family elite. Anything she could pick up, any information that she might overhear during
the party could be invaluable. This was going better than Casey had hoped. With luck, it wouldn’t be long before they brought Alexei Popov and his whole operation down.
There was a little more small talk and viewing of artwork before Ivan asked for permission to leave.
Alexei made a remark in Russian that had both men chuckling. Judging from the inflections, she guessed it was conjecture on what Ivan planned to do with her once they left.
Collecting their coats, they headed outside to where they’d left Ivan’s car. Casey shivered with the cold. The temperature had dropped lower than it had been in the last few days.
“You did well,” he told her once they were both buckled in. “Alexei likes you.”
Glancing out of the window, she eyed the mansion as they drove away. “That should make this easier, then.”
“Da, but do not forget. Like a viper, he is poison when he strikes. You must do what it takes to not break your cover.”
Casey was prepared to do anything. Whatever it took to bring her brother’s killer to justice. She’d made a vow to see this through to the end.
The feel of Ivan’s hand on her knee brought her attention back to him.
“Is shame we cannot play tonight. After all that, I am in mood to have those heels in my flesh.”
Casey’s core throbbed with need at the thought. Adrenaline was still high in her veins and she was heady with a sense of success. With her team following them, though, heading for The Secret Garden Club was a bad idea. Staying any longer with Ivan was a bad idea. He was Bratva. She was ATF. There could never be a future for them, and the here-and-now was just too damn tempting. Knowing what he was like during a scene, she had a feeling that he’d fuck her like an animal. Hard, hot, raw, and dirty.
Exactly what she craved.
Ivan was dangerous. Like a moth to a deadly flame, she couldn’t help being drawn to him. Her shadow self felt his darkness echo inside her. It was strange. She felt a connection to him like she’d never known before, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
“I’m heading home to bed alone after my debriefing,” she informed him dryly, removing his hand. “It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow and I have plans.”
It was a lie. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Ben’s death. If Ivan remembered, he didn’t mention it.
Morgan was flying home tonight. She’d be doing her session at the Citadel, grabbing her bags, and bugging out for the airport. The poor thing hated flying. Casey couldn’t legally score her nerve pills, but she’d picked her up a new bottle of chewable Dramamine.
While Morgan celebrated Thanksgiving with her parents and brothers, Casey planned to spend it getting drunk and reminiscing over the family she had lost. Swallowed by guilt and being eaten alive by misery.
They drove around for a while before Ivan dropped her off at the designated point.
Mendez and Fitzgerald were waiting for her.
“Well?”
Casey raised an eyebrow at Mendez’s tone. He wasn’t the agent in charge and she didn’t appreciate his impatience.
“Looks like my cover is going to hold. Popov invited us to his birthday party in a few weeks.”
Mendez’s gaze crawled up her figure with a sneer. “Don’t tell me that Russian’s cracking the ice. What the fuck, Andersson? Do criminals get you hot?”
Wow. He sounded... jealous.
Fitzgerald berated him, his thick eyebrows dipping with his frown. Beneath his coat, his broken arm was cradled in a sling. “Jesus, man, she’s undercover. We both know you do whatever it takes to get into organizations like that.”
Casey glared at the man assigned as her partner. “Look, Mendez, I don’t know what your problem is, but if you don’t cut the crap, I swear to God, I’ll file charges for sexual harassment. You’ll be out and I’ll be happily working with someone else,” she informed him, her voice filled with the iciness she was famous for at work.
Her threat shut him up quickly enough. He speared his fingers in his hair and grated through his teeth, “Sorry. I’m sorry. My comment was out of line.”
Narrowing her eyes, Casey accepted his apology although it still rang with bitterness. She knew in Vegas that he liked her but this was going too far.
Getting back to business, she summed up what had happened tonight for her teammates. Fitzgerald recorded it and Mendez took notes. With her car parked nearby, at least she didn’t have to ask for a lift or call for a ride. She needed a foot massage, though, after spending hours in those heels.
Returning to the empty apartment was depressing but she had nowhere else to be on Thanksgiving Eve. With Morgan gone, Casey was destined to suffer through another holiday alone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Casey curled her fingers around the steaming mug, the aroma of coffee teasing her senses, her dark mood only slightly elevated by her surroundings. The gourmet kitchen where she sat was as bright and cheerful as its owner.
Desperate for the company she lacked, she’d caved and phoned Precious Pet—Helena Braxton—and accepted her invitation to spend Thanksgiving with her.
This year felt different. Sharper. As if all the jagged pieces of her loss were working their way upwards through her soul and body. It was actually a little frightening.
“Lunch is almost ready,” her hostess informed her with a smile.
“Is there anything I can do, Helena?” She wanted to feel like she’d contributed something besides two bottles of wine—one to drink and another to replace what she’d partly emptied in Precious Pet’s office.
“You can set the table. You know where things are.” The older woman was at the sink, straining boiled potatoes to mash.
Slipping out of her seat, Casey busied herself collecting all the things they needed. Helena’s holiday china, matching flatware, wine goblets, and footed water glasses. Setting them out, she went hunting for autumn-colored linen napkins and napkin rings. Growing up, she’d often visited Helena’s house with her family. They’d shared most holidays and had mourned here together. With so many bittersweet memories, she had resisted her invitation to return.
Casey needed to ask what had happened the last time that she’d been at the club. It was preying on her mind. Too much was missing or fragmented.
“I’ve been meaning to ask… about the other evening. How exactly did I get home?”
Helena glanced up from her mixing bowl, a metal masher in her hand. “I asked my new floor monitors to escort you.”
Casey stilled, hugging the napkins she was holding to her chest. “They drove me home?”
“Your identity is safe,” the other woman quickly assured her. “All of my staff know to be discreet. They simply made sure you got into your apartment without harm.”
Concentrating on the broken memories, Casey vaguely remembered someone stroking her hair. Soothing voices. They must have used her key to get in. She didn’t like the thought of strangers inside her home but at the same time, she was grateful they’d made sure she’d arrived there safely. Helena was always careful about whom she hired.
“I’ll have to thank them next time I see them.” Returning to the formal dining room table, she expertly folded the napkins, slid the decorative rings onto the fabric, and laid them by their place settings. While Helena finished the food, Casey poured them both spring water and their favorite wine.
When everything was ready, they settled down to a peaceful lunch. Helena had outdone herself. The oven-roasted turkey was accompanied by all the traditional fixings—stuffing, mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, sweet potato casserole, a platter of fresh vegetables and another of roasted root vegetables, cranberry dressing, hot yeast rolls, and softened butter. She’d fixed both pumpkin pie and pumpkin pecan cheesecake for dessert.
Casey ate until she couldn’t move. “God, I feel so Roman,” she whined.
Helena laughed with delight. “You’ll be taking leftovers home with you. I won’t be able to manage it all on my own.”
Swirling the wine in her glass, Casey f
inished it off with a smile. Her mood had lightened. The feelings and emotions that had almost choked her when she’d awakened this morning had eased.
It took another hour to debone the turkey, pack up leftovers, do the dishes, and put things away. Helena put two stacks of lidded deli takeout containers in a plastic handled bag to send home with her.
“Can you stay a bit?” Helena asked, looking as tired as Casey felt. She’d been cooking since before dawn.
Casey gracefully declined. “You need to rest, and I need to get this stuff home and in the fridge. It’s a two-hour drive on a good day, let alone holiday traffic. Sticking it in the trunk will help. That turkey’s too good to risk getting food poisoning.”
Helena’s shoulders dropped with disappointment. Her whole demeanor changed.
Casey gave the older woman a hug. “We’ll talk soon,” she promised. “I’ll let you know when I can get back to the club.”
Helena sighed, hugging her just as tightly. “And get rid of the red. It doesn’t suit you, Casey. You're much better as a blonde.”
“It’s for work,” she told her, not elaborating. Helena knew to not question her further. She’d worry, though. She always had. Always would.
Casey pulled on her coat, grabbed her things, and headed for her car. Stashing the food in the trunk, she started the engine to warm and spied her phone in the cupholder when she went to buckle up. She’d left it here, refusing to have their time interrupted by Ivan or Mr. Rogers or anyone else.
Picking it up, she swiped the screen and kept her finger poised above it, intending to check her calls… except her screen stayed black.
Christ on a cracker.
The battery was dead.
Dammit. In her rush to get to Helena’s, she hadn’t checked how low it was. Now no one could reach her.